Putting the car in park, I lean my head back. I sit there for a moment staring at the house, trying to figure out what I’m going to say to him. From the outside, the house still looks like the same tranquil place it has always been, a home—Grace’s, Ben’s, mine. But I’m uncertain of what lies in wait on the inside—what if tranquility is not what I’m about to walk into? I draw deep steady breaths and turn off the engine, preparing myself to see him, all the while wondering if we would even still be together if he never “died.” I want to believe that in the end, River and I would still have found our way back to each other.
Glancing toward the moonlit path, there stands Ben on the old weathered planks staring at my car, at me. My breath catches at the sight of him. I stay where I am, frozen in place for the longest time. I didn’t expect to see him outside. He looks mostly the same: ruggedly handsome chiseled face, tall figure, khaki cargo shorts, messy blond hair peeking through the hood of his sweatshirt. He looks thinner than he was, not as tan as he used to be, but he’s still Ben, still all surfer. He’s not a figment of my imagination and, for a moment, time stops and I’m transported back to the days when he’d stand there like that waiting for me to follow. I can’t believe it’s really him . . . my friend, my rock, he’s not really dead. What I’m afraid of I’m not even sure. But the longer I sit here, the longer he stares and I finally open the door.
As I walk toward the bridge, my feelings are so undefined. I’m not sure how to handle this conversation. But my uncertainty quickly fades when the slightly cocky grin I know so well appears on his face, and the apprehension I felt earlier wells within me. I’m no longer questioning if I should be here because I know I should—I need to know what happened to him.
When I stop a safe distance from him our eyes meet and his grin immediately disappears. He pulls his hood off and lowers his head but never once takes his gaze off me. With his hands shoved in his pockets he leans back against the unstable railing looking almost stoic. I can’t stop staring at him. My heart beats faster with every passing second and I feel like I’m sinking in quicksand. I have the urge to run and escape whatever it is pulsing through my body but I don’t. I can’t. I’m glued to this spot held captive by his gaze.
Biting my lip, I stop and stand in front of him, motionless—we are former lovers turned strangers. Neither one of us speaks a word for the longest time. When an owl hoots in the distance, Ben lifts his head and a warm smile appears. “Dahl, Hoot is back. She must have known we’d need someone to break the silence.” Every time we used to hear an owl, he would tell me that its name was Hoot, as if there was only one.
“Can we talk?” he asks and the sound of his voice scares the living shit out of me. It’s the voice I missed for so long and up until nine months ago would have given anything to hear.
I nod my head. We do need to talk. That’s why I’m here. It’s just strange, odd, forced; I can’t even open my mouth to speak to him. It’s not like we haven’t seen each other in a long time and I’m just here to catch up. He was dead.
He, however, seems at ease, comfortable, and just like always he finds the right words for the situation. Standing, he straightens and motions with his shoulder to the beach. He heads toward the water and I can’t help but notice that he walks with the same stride he always has—slow and steady. I study him as I follow behind. The muscles in his shoulders are much less pronounced and the span of his back seems narrower. I’ve never seen him this lean. He must not have been anywhere where he could surf.
Keeping my distance, I don’t want to get too close . . . don’t want to touch him. This interlude is so strange because this is the one place we always held hands. Every time we walked over this bridge in the past our hands were connected, since we were five years old. But now, those fond memories are all blurred by the fog of utter confusion that his return to my life has brought. My stomach feels uneasy again as I continue down the path that I know can only lead to imbalance—an encounter that may just turn my world upside down.
The beach stretches for miles but he heads toward the water. When he stops near the shore, I can hear him sigh before he turns around to face me. As he twists his familiar features become clearly recognizable—the fine chiseled nose, square chin, and eyes that could talk to me without him ever speaking a word. As they do when I watch them dart to my wrist and narrow in on the Cartier bracelet he gave me the night he died.
“You’re still wearing it,” he observes.
I promptly cover it with my left hand, as if that could make it disappear. My action only makes his gaze intensify as he now stares directly at River’s ring—not his ring—on my finger. A sudden pang of guilt scorches me but he says nothing and neither do I.
The water slushes up over his flip-flops, but he doesn’t seem to notice. As the moonlight cascades down upon us, he takes a deep breath and rubs his bloodshot eyes. Scrubbing his hands in his face, he says, “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure if after yesterday I’d ever see your gorgeous face again and I’ve missed it so much for so long.”
He moves as if to cup my cheeks, but I step back. I put my hands out, signaling for him to keep his distance. I feel conflicted, torn, not sure what to say or what to do, but I don’t want him to touch me.
He instantly freezes. “You don’t have to be afraid. It will all make sense soon, please just hear me out.”
It’s the same voice I’ve always known. The same guy I had spoken to every day for almost twenty years, yet he sounds like a stranger.
Retreating from the water, he drops down and sits in the sand with his knees bent and motions with his head for me to sit next to him. I fall to the sand beside him and escape his steady stare by untying and removing my sneakers. I curl my bare toes in the sand, hoping to find comfort. I bend my knees and wrap my arms around them. Resting my chin on my legs as I stare out at the vast ocean, I can feel his eyes on me. I have yet to speak a word. I’m sure he’s interpreting my silence as confusion because he thinks he knows me—does he? Or have I changed?
Trapped in my own thoughts, his voice catches me by surprise. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, just listen. Okay?”
Again, I nod my head.
“What I had to do wasn’t easy, but I did it all for you. To protect you. I just hope you can see it that way.”
Twisting to the side, planting my hands in the sand, I finally find my voice. “What are you talking about?”
He rubs his palms over his shorts and I can tell he’s nervous. “Fuck, I don’t even know where to start.”
I level my head to look at him. “The beginning. How about you start at the beginning? Why you made us all think you were dead, when you weren’t.” I can hear my own voice sounding sad and that scares me.
He takes a deep breath, leans back and shoves his legs out in front of him. He looks around and then finally at me. “That’s just it. I don’t even know anymore where it all started. But two weeks before the awards ceremony is probably the beginning. Caleb called me and I remember the day like it was yesterday. You were at work and I was writing from home. His call was a surprise; I didn’t even know he was back from Afghanistan. We met and he told me an FBI task force approached him when he arrived home and he was asked to assist them in taking down a big drug ring. After a few weeks on the job, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He didn’t like the way the task force was operating and that’s when he called me.”